


A night in

by Donrex



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dancing, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Makeouts, Romantic Fluff, Slow Dancing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, did I mention its fluffy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 06:40:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16550849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donrex/pseuds/Donrex
Summary: it’s a normal lazy night. Two eternal being bask in each other’s presence as the rain washes the streets outside. All is calm. They are happy.





	A night in

It was a rainy day.

It is said that rain is the tears of the angels, and so each time the sky weeps, Crowley feels accomplished. Okay, he isn’t the one making the angels cry, so satisfaction, at most.

After all, there is only one angel he cares about, and he knows for certain that one is not Up There, nor upset in the slightest. Quite the opposite, as a quick look down at the body pressed against his can be any attestant.

Azirapale’s head is tacked under Crowley’s chin, the soft tips of his hair tingling Crowley’s neck lightly. His ear is just above Crowley’s heart, which is beating lazily. their breath is synchronized.

One of Crowley’s hands is latching onto Azirapale, while the other is grasping a glass of untouched wine, whom Crowley poured himself as he set down, but never got the chance to taste as Azirapale sat down at his lap, taking away any chance Crowley had to move freely in fear of inconveniencing the angel.

The angel in question was reading a book, tilted upward just so that the demon could read over with him, if so he desired.

It could’ve been anything, really, from the soft rain outside; the sound of drops hitting the roof, the windows, a constant background noise, a distant rhythm of music only the maker knows it’s meaning.

to the dim lighting of Azirapale’s apartment; two out of the four lightbulbs on the chandelier were burnt. The two last ones were providing a light so poor, it was as if they were better off burnt. When Crowley asked, Azirapale said he preferred sunlight better, anyway, and that they made the night just as bright as he wanted it. Crowley hadn’t understood it, then, but being under the lights gave a comforting, intimate feeling, and Crowley found himself agreeing those words his counterpart said sometime long ago.

to Azirapale’s captivating smell; a smell you didn’t know you were used to until it was gone, leaving you longing for it, missed it surrounding you, cradling you, reminding you of safety, of better days and rays of sun in the clearest skies...

or maybe it was just Azirapale himself; his body pressed against Crowley’s, all round angles and radiating the warmth of a summer day, of a cup of hot drink under a heavy blanket, a warm shower after a cold day, of coming home after being outdoors at the mercy of drifting wind.

Well, the cause matters less than the results, in this case. And in that case, Crowley found himself nodding off.

He hadn’t noticed when a warm, heavy body slowly and carefully rose from his lap, nor when the glass of wine was taken from his hand and moved to safety, or the silent press of a button, which activated an old, raspy radio, and the quiet, quivering sound of music, it’s rhythm intertwining with the rain outside.

Actually, he only noticed all of those after a dull thud of plastic hit the floor, followed by a soft “oh dear...”

but when when he did notice, he could no longer bring himself to ignorance.

“Angel?” He asked, voice raspy.

Said angel’s head popped from the entrance leading to the kitchen, looking worried.

“Have I awoken you?” The head asked, it’s body appearing momentarily, in what seems to be brown powder covering it, only to disappear into another room in a hurry.

When both the head and it’s attached dirty body came into view again, holding a broom, Crowley was already up from the couch and on his way to witness the scene himself.

And the scene, so to speak, was a dropped container of cocoa powder. He sat on one of the chairs next to the counter, to not get in his angel’s way, of course, and watched him swipe the floor, humming along to the radio.

Azirapale hadn’t asked for Crowley’s help, and so Crowley hadn’t offered Azirapale to simply wish the mess away. It was better off for them both of them like that.

Mindlessly, Crowley found himself joining Azirapale in his humming, one hand tapping along to the rain, the other propped on the counter, holding the demon’s cheek upright.

The song ended just as Azirapale set his broom aside, and so they stood a few seconds, staring at each other with the static and the rain the accompany them as they await the next song.

A few tender piano entry brings a slow smile to spread across the angel’s face. He takes a few steps towards Crowley, grabbing the hand laid across the table and claiming her.

“Dance with me,” he urges gently, making Crowley’s insides turn into mush.

“You’re full of cocoa powder,” he informs Azirapale, standing up nonetheless.

Azirapale laughs, wasting no time to pull the demon close, both his handssliding down the dark suit and settling on a thin waist, undoubtedly dirtying the demons dark expansive clothes.

Crowley fights a smile as he sets his own hands on the angel’s shoulders.

They sway as the song plays, chests pressed close, humming and vibrating and happy.

A saxophone solo starts playing, accompanied by piano.

Azirapale pulls at Crowley’s waist and lead them into a twirl, chuckling. It’s perfect. All of it. 

He presses a kiss onto Crowley’s cheek as they settle back into swaying, moving slowly to under his ear, down the jaw and onto the neck.

Crowley shudders, his grip on Azirapale’s shoulders tightening. That fathered bastard. He can feel Azirapale smiling on his neck.

The song ends, and a new one begins, but neither notice, enveloped in each other. Enchanted by the closeness, completely devoured in one another.

Crowley tips his neck, bringing a finger to Azirapale’s chin and guides him to his mouth.

Azirapale follows willingly, taking a step forward and then another, backing Crowley into a wall.

Crowley’s back hits the wall, and he huffs, sliding his hands from Azirapale’s shoulders up, one to cup his cheek, the second into his hair.

The radio plays some classic music, an opera singer and a few violins, trumpets and piano reach a crashendo as they both tilt their head, deepening the kiss.

Azirapale, no longer worried Crowley can escape him, leaves his waist to bury his hands in his hair, making a mess of it. Crowley leans into the touch, not able to get enough.

They could stay like that forever. He wishes they would.


End file.
